


We played board games. He sucked- I mean. Sunk my battleship.

by otechestvo



Series: Not Rus/Aus [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otechestvo/pseuds/otechestvo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mattress-surfing incident that went horribly wrong, Søren wakes up to a flour-covered kitchen and a very happy sort-of-not-really-boyfriend. Russia/Denmark, graphic sex. Based of an RP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We played board games. He sucked- I mean. Sunk my battleship.

**Author's Note:**

> As I mentioned in the summary, this was based off of an RP, the same one where RusAus came about, but a year or so earlier. Russia is completely gaga over Denmark, who kind of allows it but is super pissy about it. Denmark and Netherlands had an incident where they were mattress-surfing down the stairs, and Denmark injured himself and was out for two days. Russia was really happy to see him. Søren = Denmark, Jan = Netherlands. Written sometime in 2009, I think. This was also back when I still used the American English spelling, so...

Upon waking up for the first time in two days, ‘Fucking _shit_ my head hurts,’ was Søren’s first coherent thought.

His second coherent thought was, ‘It is way too quiet in this house.’

Both thoughts were worrying in their own way. He knew why his head hurt: the mattress-surfing had been going quite nicely until his fatass brother decided to join and overbalance the makeshift surfboard. The crash itself was mostly a blur, but Søren remembered enough to realize that he had probably managed to concuss himself on the banister. Fantastic. He’d have to bitch out Jan for that later.

That second thought, however, was not as easy to explain.

The simplest explanation was that Ivan had left for his own house sometime during his coma. It was also the least likely. Not only was his new house still in the middle of construction according to the architect Søren now had on speed dial, he had also been not-so-sneakily attempting to move in since even before he had pulled a crazy and burned his original home to the ground. Every morning Søren found some new article of clothing tucked neatly away in the drawer Ivan had apparently claimed as his own. No matter how much of Ivan’s things he threw out the window, there was always more in the morning.

So he hadn’t gone home. He might be visiting someone, Søren supposed, but for some reason he doubted that as well. It just didn’t seem probable that Ivan, after being attached to his hip for a week when he wasn’t suffering from a severe head injury, would finally decide to give him some space when he actually needed to be monitored.

So he probably hadn’t left. But the house was quiet, and Ivan was only quiet when he found something to entertain himself. Understandably, this concerned Søren.

After a brief struggle between him and the room, which decided it would rather like to spin around for no reason whatsoever, Søren slid off of the couch and onto his feet. Muttering to himself about bad ideas and overweight brothers, he stumbled in the general direction of the kitchen with the intent to grab a glass of water before looking to see what kind of trouble Ivan had gotten into while left unattended.

Søren stepped into his kitchen. He froze in place. And he _stared._

It looked like ground zero to some sort of bizarre war he had somehow managed to sleep through. The warm mahogany of his floor and cabinets was hardly visible through a thin layer of white powder; flour, he decided, upon spotting the remains of the packaging hanging over the edge of the trash bin. Several of his cabinets were open, and many of his appliances had been dragged out, examined, and left on the counter. That must have happened before… whatever had gone down with the flour, for the powder had infiltrated the cabinets as well. And there was Ivan, covered head to toe in flour and crouched over what appeared to be his third attempt at a flour-angel.

He shouted before he could stop himself. “What the hell did you do to my kitchen?!”

When Ivan’s head snapped up to look at him he knew he had made a mistake. Well. Too late now. Søren had only half a second to prepare for impact before he was flung to the ground by two hundred and fifty pounds of apparently very happy Russian.

Being tackled to the floor was annoying on days when he _wasn’t_ suffering from the aftereffects of a concussion. As it was, his head still hurt like a bitch, and having it slammed against the wood certainly did not help. Stars burst in front of Søren’s eyes (or was that flour floating up from the ground?), and by the time he could blink them away he was aware of having his face peppered with dozens of little kisses.

“What are you… oy! Stop it!” Sputtering, he tried to shove at Ivan, first at the arms wrapped tightly around his waist, then at the face nuzzling his own. When that failed, he attempted to sit up. Not one to be deterred by such a silly thing as struggling, Ivan simply laughed and pushed him right back down.

It was just fucking ridiculous, that this was what his life had come to be.

“You’re awake~!” He kissed him once more, sloppy and enthusiastic. Søren was getting just a little dizzy. Whatever happened to personal space? He missed personal space.

“Yes, yes, nice to see you too,” He muttered, stubbornly turning his face away from the affection. He tried to wriggle out of that firm grasp for a moment, but Ivan would have none of that. When his head hit the floor again it didn’t hurt quite as much, but it made his vision spin. “And if you keep doing that, you’ll knock me out again!”

Ivan had the decency to fake a look of guilt, but only for a moment. It hadn’t been very convincing anyway. Odd as it was to see, the smiles that Ivan wore so frequently actually reached his eyes more often than not lately, and that glint of cheerful pleasure refused to be masked so easily. “Stop trying to get up and I’ll stop pushing you down.”

A dozen responses were thought up in a short period of time. Most of them were vulgar and none of them would get him anywhere. So Søren sighed, long-suffering and perhaps a tad dramatically (made slightly less so by how ridiculous he was sure he looked covered in flour), and relaxed against the floor with much reluctance. “Fine, you win. This time. Røvhul.”

This must have pleased him, as the grip on his waist became less of a restraint and more of an embrace. Ivan let out a sigh of his own, one that was far more content, and fit himself comfortably against Søren’s side. 

Even though his irritation was beginning to ebb due to no longer feeling like he was being trapped, Søren refused to reciprocate. No way was he going to join in on this girly floor-cuddling. It was mortifying enough without his help. He could only thank whatever higher power was listening that there was no one around to see. “And now that you have me on the floor in my kitchen,” Here he paused to glare, most likely uselessly if the way it made Ivan giggle was any indication. “You are cleaning this up, by the way- what are you going to do?”

Something about that triggered a change in Ivan’s expression. He was still smiling (of course he was, the bastard was always smiling and it was weird as fuck), but it was… different, suddenly. Sharper, more excited. It reminded Søren uncomfortably of a cat looking down at a mouse trapped between its paws, or of a small child with a secret, or of Francis around anything with a pulse.

“What am I going to do?” Ivan repeated, and removed one arm from his waist to drag a finger across the back of Søren’s wrist, popping the digit into his mouth when it came back tipped with flour. That couldn’t taste any good, but Søren felt it was best to let that slide without comment. The man had done weirder things in the past. “That’s a very good question, cолнышко моё. I have a few ideas. Would you like to hear them?”

He opened his mouth to complain about that ridiculous pet name, but changed his mind. He really was quite curious, and besides, he doubted that there was anything by this point in time that could stop Ivan from calling him whatever pleased him. The bastard could be very stubborn when he wanted to be. Instead, he went with, “I might regret this. Okay. Fortsæt.”

Ivan looked a bit too delighted at that, and that worried him slightly. He propped himself up on one elbow, hand splayed across Søren’s stomach as he put on a thoughtful expression. “Mmm… you know what? Never mind. I think it would be much easier to just show you. Let’s see how you like idea number one.”

“What do you--” But he didn’t get to finish his question, because that hand skimmed up to tilt his head just slightly and Ivan’s lips cut off the rest of his words.

Well. That wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Søren didn’t know what he had been expecting, but there were much worse things out there than making out on a dirty kitchen floor. So, deciding to just roll with it after a moment of surprise, Søren responded, trying to ignore the bizarre taste combination of vodka, flour, and Ivan himself.

The kiss wasn’t a gentle one; that sort of thing simply wasn’t in either of their natures. The kiss was one of tongue and teeth and nails, of fighting for dominance. Ivan’s hands found his hair. Søren’s hands found his neck. He tried a few times to surge up, so he could flip them both so he could get off of his back and maybe get some control of this situation.

That apparently wasn’t part of Ivan’s plan for the evening, and every attempt earned him a firm hand to the chest and a warning growl that he felt more than he heard. Søren eventually gave up, blaming his concussion for the failure and deciding to just get back at the bastard later, and made up for it by biting Ivan hard enough to elicit a light wince. And then…

And then Ivan suddenly detached himself from Søren’s mouth and sat back, lips wet and swollen and pulled into one of the most self-satisfied grins he’d ever seen.

“Hey!” Søren frowned, tugging impatiently at that silly scarf Ivan insisted on wearing at all times. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get back down here, you bastard!”

That seemed to amuse him, because Ivan just laughed and curled his hand over the one attempting to simultaneously strangle him and haul him closer. “Нет, I will not. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Paying attention to… what are you going on about?” 

“I guess you weren’t. Oh well,” Ivan shrugged, and it took far too much effort for Søren to stop himself from smacking that smug look off his face. “That was only my first idea. Wouldn’t you like to hear the other two before you decide what you want me to do?”

So that was the game, then. Søren would have been pissed if he wasn’t actually a little interested in these two other options. Fine. He’d play along. “…sure, why the hell not. What’s your second idea?”

Ivan settled back on the ground next to him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. When Søren turned his head in an attempt to catch his lips once more (damn it, he liked making out, the bastard knew that) he was denied with a laugh, so he just huffed in annoyance and settled down. He really would have to get him back for this.

Søren would have continued that thought if he wasn’t suddenly very thoroughly distracted by the hand playing with the fastenings of his trousers.

That didn’t process for one very long moment. When it did, Søren twitched, twisting to give Ivan an incredulous look. “Wait, wait, hold on a second--”

“Shush. You’re missing the demonstration,” Ivan teased. “I wouldn’t want to have to repeat myself.” The button popped out easily from the hole, and the quiet sound made Søren’s stomach do a bizarre little flip that reminded him strangely of tumbling down his brother’s stairs.

‘I should probably stop this,’ Søren thought as the silence in the room was broken by surprisingly loud _ziiiip_ of his fly being undone. He considered this briefly, even flexed his fingers as if in preparation to yank that wandering hand away from his person. But something stopped him, whether it be his libido quietly reminding him just how long it had been since he’d even had the free time and space to jerk off or something else entirely (like, perhaps, the fact that he had been recently comatose). Whatever the reason was, he sort of liked where this was going.

So rather than kneeing Ivan in the gut and making a run for it, as the non-addled part of his brain was quite loudly insisting he do, Søren focused on not making any potentially embarrassing sounds when Ivan slipped his hand inside his boxers.

Despite popular opinion, Ivan’s skin was no colder than a normal person’s, and Søren had never been more grateful for that than at that very moment, with his fingers curled around the base of his half-hard cock. The chill would have been quite uncomfortable right about now.

Instead, he was warm and firm against him, stroking up and down at a pace that was far too leisurely for Søren’s tastes. He politely informed Ivan of this little complaint (“Du stodder, I’m not made out of fucking porcelain. Go faster or I swear I’ll hit you!”), and was pleased to see the issue remedied right away.

For those few minutes his world boiled down to the hand bringing him to hardness quite effectively and the teeth teasing his earlobe. Søren was assaulted briefly by the mental image of Ivan biting the hunk of flesh off and claiming it as some sort of trophy, and he laughed at the ceiling in a mix of breathlessness and mild hysteria. 

When Ivan added a little twist and variance of pressure to every upstroke Søren began to have trouble keeping still. It wasn’t like there was anyone here he had to impress, he reasoned. No need to remain stoic while being jerked off.

Then it happened again. Just as quickly as all of this nonsense started it was over, and Søren was left only with cool air on his straining erection and a profound sense of loss. Ivan hovered over him, eagerly drinking up his expression as it changed from one fuzzy with pleasure, to a blank sort of disbelief, and finally to indignant rage.

“For fanden da også!” He shouted, and he really did hit Ivan this time, smacking the side of his head with an open palm. As he had come to expect Ivan just laughed, and caught his hand when he tried to land another blow.

“Calm down, Søren,” He soothed, and scraped his teeth gently across the delicate skin of his inner wrist. “You are far too impatient. Relax, I know you’ll enjoy this next option very much.”

The grip on his hand was not strong enough to where he couldn’t hit Ivan again if he really wanted to. But while he did want to, he had an inkling as to what this last idea of his was, and… well, he could always hit the bastard later. Søren glowered through the little twist of anticipation in his stomach but did nothing else.

After a beat passed without any further violence, Ivan set his hand on the flour-coated floor beside his body, nails brushing across the tendons there before he let it be with a friendly pat. When Ivan sat up Søren followed onto his elbows, watching with an odd combination of nervousness and excitement as he moved to kneel next to his legs. That earlier fantasy of Ivan taking a trophy flitted through his mind once more, but he figured he was safe from the threat of any bodily mutilation for now. Probably.

With quite a bit of prompting (couldn’t make any of this _too_ easy on the bastard, after all) Søren allowed his trousers and boxers to be pushed down past the curve of his hips. He thought of complaining about how he was never going to get all of the flour off, but then he was surrounded by an absolutely wonderful wet heat and the mess didn’t seem so important. 

He rocked up automatically at the first long, slow suck, which earned him firm hands on his hips pushing him back to the ground. It was frustrating, but he didn’t try to fight it. From his position on his elbows Søren had a nice view of what was happening, and he focused on keeping his breathing steady while he watched Ivan’s head bob easily up and down on his cock. His expression was strangely content and relaxed. 

Seeing as it had already happened twice, he really should not have been surprised when Ivan stopped just when it had been getting really good. That didn’t stop an angry growl from ripping from his throat when Ivan’s lips slid off of him with a wet, obscene little ‘pop’. 

“So!” He chirped brightly, smiling as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, as if he had not had a mouthful of the Dane’s cock just seconds ago, and Søren knew that he was gaping but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got, at least for now. Do any of those ideas appeal to you?”

For one brief, incredulous moment, Søren didn’t know whether to brain Ivan with a skillet or grab his head and shove it back between his legs. He decided to do neither.

“…you,” he finally choked. “Are a complete… bastard.”

Somehow, Ivan’s smile got even wider. Braining him was suddenly a much more appealing thought. “That doesn’t answer my question, cолнышко моё.” And there, he said it again, that ridiculous, girly nickname, and said in such a pleased sort of sing-song that he _had_ to know how much it irritated him. 

Søren glared with as much hatred and venom as he could muster. It really wasn’t very much. He’d have to try again when he wasn’t so turned on. So, after that little failure, he let his expression slip into something a bit less angry and a bit more considering. 

He was really going to regret this. He sort of already did. This lapse in judgment must be from that impact with his damned brother’s banister. After a long, silent moment, he finally said, "...I think we'll have to start from the beginning. I'm still undecided."

Oh, how Ivan grinned at that. He couldn’t bring himself to be irritated. Not very, anyway. “Wonderful.”

This time, when Ivan bent down for a kiss, Søren met him halfway. His head was quickly pushed back against the wood and his elbows slipped out from under him, however, and the niggling ache from his concussion pulsed dully at the pressure. That was only too easy to ignore with his mouth being so thoroughly occupied. The small shiver that echoed through each of his limbs when Ivan straddled his hips (supporting his own weight on his knees, which both prevented him from being crushed and from receiving any contact where he really wanted it) helped to push the pain to the far recesses of his mind.

It was just as good the second time around. Each kiss was separated by the smallest of pauses, just a few moments to gulp down a lungful of air before diving right back in. It was clumsy and eager, made of clashing teeth and shared, heavy breaths. The only gentleness between them was shown in the care Ivan took in unbuttoning Søren’s shirt, although that was most likely out of the desire to not get yelled at later for ruining his clothing.

Søren grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked back, granting his teeth access to the vulnerable and sensitive area of flesh peeking out from under the worn wool of Ivan’s scarf. At the same time Ivan dragged his nails across his bare side, as his other hand slipped under his arching back to caress the curve of his spine. One, or perhaps both, of them made a noise not at all dissimilar to a moan. 

The switch from part one to part two of Ivan’s ideas for the evening wasn’t quite as sudden or jarring as it had been previously. Ivan managed to pull free from the grasp on his hair to kiss Søren again, once, twice, before trailing his lips across his jaw to catch the earlobe opposite the one he had been playing with earlier between his teeth. His hands moved in long stroking motions down Søren’s body, scratching hard enough at his hips to redden and raise the skin.

Noticing the directional change and what that meant, Søren squeezed the back of Ivan’s neck reflexively and breathed eager encouragements. He swore that he could feel Ivan smile against his ear at that. 

“F-fuck,” He hissed, when Ivan’s hand curled around the swollen flesh between his legs once more, and yes, the bastard was definitely smiling. When Ivan didn’t move quickly enough he bucked his hips impatiently and spat out some insults directed at the mother they both knew Ivan didn’t have. That drew out a soft laugh that reverberated across the cartilage of his ear, and he would have yanked his head away if Ivan hadn’t started pumping his cock right then.

The addition of saliva made the act both easier and a bit more comfortable, losing the dry roughness of before that he’d been too shocked to let bother him. Actual lubricant would have been preferable, but it wasn’t like either of them were in the mood to be picky. Søren certainly wasn’t complaining. 

Had he been in a more observant state of mind, he might have noticed that Ivan had abandoned the teasing exploration of his chest in order to palm the bulge in the front of his own trousers. As it was, all Søren cared about was the hand twisting over his own cock and the hot breath washing over his ear and neck and how fucking _good_ it all felt.

Either reading Søren’s urgency or acting on his own, Ivan didn’t stay there long. With some nudging and shifting he slid further down Søren’s legs until his flushed face was hovering over his groin (or at least he thought it was flushed; it was hard to tell through the thin coat of white on his cheeks and nose). His eyes flicked up to meet Søren’s for an instant before they fell half-closed. Still rubbing at the shaft in short jerks, he bent down to draw the blood-darkened head into his mouth. He released it almost immediately, breathed in, and slipped a little further down. Ivan repeated this several times until he had Søren almost completely trapped in his throat. Then he really started sucking in earnest and that was it, Søren couldn’t stop himself from groaning and thrusting up into that heat. His hips were restrained once more by Ivan’s now free hand but he couldn’t even begin to care.

When Ivan made like he was going to pull away after a few minutes of this, Søren pressed a hand to the back of his head to try and keep him in place. “Option three,” he breathed quickly, before Ivan could make a real effort to move. “I pick option three.”

That was what Ivan had wanted to hear, it seemed, for he settled more comfortably on top of his legs. With that stupid little game finally out of the way Søren let himself get caught up in the pleasure, one hand clenching in soft hair while the other scrabbled for purchase on the slippery floor. He stopped thinking about what was happening, about who was doing this to him, about the consequences, and even about if Ivan was really going to bite it off or not.

And when he stopped thinking he stopped breathing, and everything tightened up and released all at once, and his nerves positively thrummed and _sang_ , and it was _wonderful_ , and-

And it was over. Just as suddenly as he had been tackled to the floor it was over. Søren realized that he must have whited out for a moment, because suddenly Ivan was cuddled against his side, arm flopped over his waist, calmly licking where a bit of flour had clumped with the sweat on his temple. Søren wasn’t particularly fond of snuggling, but he’d deal with that when he could breathe and see properly (yes, those were definitely stars this time).

Neither of them spoke. As he came down from the high and settled into the more lucid, sleepy afterglow, Søren couldn’t help but notice something stiff jabbing him in the hip. It didn’t take a lot of brain power to figure out what that was. Perhaps he could…

He crushed that idea before it even finished forming, and shoved Ivan away as best he could with a glare. “Right. There aren’t words in any language to describe how filthy I feel right now. I’m going to take a shower, and while I do that you’d better get to work on cleaning up this mess.”

It was unreasonably disappointing that Ivan didn’t look disappointed. He just kept grinning that frustratingly smug grin and allowed himself to be pushed back without any fuss. “Of course, of course. Not a problem. Go enjoy your shower.”

Something about that pissed Søren off, and when he sat up he punched Ivan in the shoulder as hard as he could with that bone-deep relaxation settling in each of his limbs. The small grunt of pain didn’t satisfy him like he thought it would. 

Getting to his feet and fighting off a sudden dizzy spell (that’s right, concussion, he’d have to remember that), Søren pulled his trousers and boxers back up past his hips. He didn’t bother zipping up and instead took another look at his kitchen, then at the man sitting cross-legged on the floor. He opened his mouth, pressed his lips into a thin line, turned on his heel and skulked out of the room.

Absolutely fucking ridiculous.


End file.
